


bodies in motion

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, Fantasizing, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:57:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16242092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Thirteen masturbates in front of a mirror while thinking of the Master. Does what it says on the tin.





	bodies in motion

When it's all said and done, when they have the TARDIS back safe and sound, when Yaz and Ryan and Graham have found rooms and a place to be...

When it's all said and done, the Doctor asks the TARDIS to lead her to her new room and then asks her to make sure she has some time _alone_.

Her new friends can explore to their leisure. They won't find her, not yet; she has things she wants to see and do and touch and taste first. A new body, new parts, new sensations, all for her exploratory fingers to discover. A whole new self to have fun with.

The room the TARDIS gives her is perfect - a large, low bed, laden with pillows and cushions, and against one wall, a mirror. She stares at herself, wonders vaguely at when 'she' became so intimately comfortable after centuries and centuries of 'he', puts it out of her mind for now.

Blonde, she hasn't been blonde for a long time, and the flippy hair is more like her fifth self than her sixth. Hazel-brown eyes, darker brows. A few lines around the corners of her eyes, but definitely a more youthful look than her last body, all grey hair and stern looks. This body smiles more readily. She thinks she really will laugh hard, run fast, be kind.

She wants to try more. She thinks she might want to try pears, again.

When she undresses, it's unceremonial. Dumps the jacket over the end of the bed, toes off the boots and socks. The suspenders go, the t-shirt is dragged over her head, the trousers pool around her feet. (No underwear yet, the idea of buying second-hand knickers seemed just a little odd.) Keeps the earring; the earring is cute. She stands before the mirror in her skin, and _looks_.

Narrow around the shoulders and wrists. Soft, small breasts, heavy in her hands. A bit of softness to her stomach, broad hips, broad to eyes accustomed to other bodies, perfect for settling her hands on. Neat triangle of hair between her legs, legs that have definitely been longer in the recent past but that's alright, they're legs that look to be good for running and running fast.

There's a constellation of freckles along her shoulders, across her stomach and hips, like an artist with sepia on their brush has flecked her with paint. She traces them across her hips, and grins.

There's traces of the women she's known, the women she's loved, in the body she wears now. The gold of Rose's and Romana's and Ace's hair, starburst freckles like Amy. Something of Donna's grin; delicate hands, a doctor's hands, like Martha's. Her eyes remind her of Sarah Jane, a bit of Jo in her nose.

Not much of River. Not much of Missy. She can imagine River's hands on her body, imagine Missy exploring her own new body like the Doctor is doing now, and a thread of warmth runs down her spine.

"Is the future all girl?" Missy's earlier self had asked, the jagged one who fit so well with her tenth body, and the Doctor imagines Missy's lips curling in a smirk and setting her hands on the Doctor's hips.

"One can only hope," she whispers, and closes her eyes. Missy would trace her body, learn the new angles and paths, reaquaintance of each other that's become intoxicatingly familiar after years and years and years. She would push her back on the bed, trace her lips with her own, learn where the seams of this skin laid and how to find the old self inside.

(Not the Doctor and Missy, not the Doctor and the Master, not the bodies they've worn. They always have been [____] and [____] at their cores, crashing into each other like they're caught in each other's event horizon.)

Missy would touch her, just so. The Doctor sinks down on the bed and opens her eyes, watches her reflection trace feathertip fingers over her thighs and imagines Missy's fingers entwined with her own. She would delve between the Doctor's legs, explore softness and wetness; her eyes fall half-lidded as she learns herself.

"Oh, you _are_ pretty this time around," she would coo in her ear, then take the chain of her earring and tug it between her teeth. The Doctor's eyelids flutter as she reaches up, pulls gently.

"I wonder how I could make this body sing?" she would murmur against her collarbones, against her star-freckled skin. Her lips, her hands; her curls, loose for once, tumbling over her shoulders. They'd still be in front of a mirror, she thinks; the Doctor on her knees, Missy behind her, whispering her name into her ear as her fingers delve deeper.

The Doctor bites her lip, pushes her fingers in further. Her body is hot and wet and tight around them, a virginal body to learn all over again, and when her thumb brushes a nub at her apex, she lets out a little, "Oh!"

She can almost hear Missy laughing, Missy nipping at her earlobe, at her throat and not caring who sees the mark. Missy at her side, like they always should have been, not two bodies crashing together again and again in a violent storm, but two bodies that fit together and soothe each other's jagged edges. Here again, here together; the Doctor on her knees before the mirror, Missy here and _touching her_ -

She's still moving her fingers, sliding them in and out, grinding against the heel of her hand, her inner thighs painted damp. Her eyes are open, watching the way her body reacts, the goosebumps rising on her skin and the flush painting them pink, but her mind is with someone else.

Missy shoving her back, pushing her against the blankets and pillows and cushions so the lines of her body are splayed across the bed. She twists, watches herself from side-on; back arched, one hand between her legs and the other roaming her body, tweaking a nipple between her fingers, circling her throat, pushing between her lips. Her toes curl in the blankets, the muscles of her calves tense and her thighs trembling.

"Look," Missy would whisper. "Look at what I can do to you."

Missy bowing her head like a prayer, her curls caressing the Doctor's thighs, Missy kissing her, whispering for the Doctor to taste herself; the Doctor presses her fingers into her mouth and does so.

She watches herself. Watches herself touching herself, watching herself touching herself remembering, imagining being touched. A new body under her hands, a new body that will inevitably be drawn to another, never apart for too long. Skip a life or two, yes; stay away forever, no.

When she finally does come, it's with that beloved name on her lips. She cries out, arches her back, shivers. She is wide awake and paying attention to every new moment of this body, every way it experiences and expresses pleasure; one day, one day they'll come back into each other's orbit, and -

The come-down is chilly. She doesn't know what happened to Missy when they last parted ways on the colony ship; she can only assume they both escaped. She doesn't know when they'll next see each other, can only hope - assume - hope that they will.

Sitting up on the bed, arms resting on her knees, gazing at the mirror. Bare-skinned reflection of her new body gazing back, waiting for the universe to throw them back together.


End file.
